UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  NEW  WORLD 


BY  WITTER  BYNNER 

AN  ODE  TO  HARVARD 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 

TIGER 

THE  LITTLE  KING 
THE  NEW  WORLD 
IPHIGENIA  IN  TAURIS 


The  New  World 

by  WITTER  BYNNER 


ERRATA 

Page  13,  ninth  line  from  the  top,  for 
"  earthly  "  read  "  earthy." 

Page  45,  fourth  line  from  the  top,  for 
"  love  "  read  "  loved." 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
1916 


COPYRIGHT   19*5  BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


The  greater  part  of  this  poem  was  delivered 
before  the  Harvard  Chapter  of  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society  in  June,  1911;  several  passages 
from  it  have  appeared  in  Poetry,  and  others  in 
The  Bellman,  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript 
and  the  American  Magazine. 


Printed  in  Amtrica 


PS 

To 


The  New  World 


Celia  was  laughing.     Hopefully  I  said: 
"  How  shall  this  beauty  that  we  share, 
This  love,  remain  aware 
Beyond  our  happy  breathing  of  the  air? 
How  shall  it  be  fulfilled  and  perfected?  .  .  . 
If  you  were  dead, 
How  then  should  I  be  comforted?  " 

But  Celia  knew  instead: 
"  He  who  finds  beauty  here,  shall  find  it  there." 

A  halo  gathered  round  her  hair. 
I  looked  and  saw  her  wisdom  bare 
The  living  bosom  of  the  countless  dead. 
.  .  .  And  there 
I  laid  my  head. 

Again  when  Celia  laughed,  I  doubted  her  and 

said: 
"  Life  must  be  led 

5 


160477 


THE  NEW  WORLD 


In  many  ways  more  difficult  to  see 

Than  this  immediate  way 

For  you  and  me. 

We  stand  together  on  our  lake's  edge,  and  the 

mystery 
Of  love  has  made  us  one,  as  day  is  made  of 

night  and  night  of  day. 
Aware  of  one  identity 
Within  each  other,  we  can  say: 
'  I  shall  be  everything  you  are.'  .  .  . 
We  are  uplifted  till  we  touch  a  star. 
We  know  that  overhead 
Is  nothing  more  austere,  more  starry,  or  more 

deep  to  understand 

Than  is  our  union,  human  hand  in  hand. 
....  But  over  our  lake  come  strangers — a 

crowded  launch,  a  lonely  sailing  boy. 
A  mile  away  a  train  bends  by.     In  every  car 
Strangers  are  travelling,  each  with  particular 
And  unkind  preference  like  ours,  with  privacy 
Of  understanding,  with  especial  joy 
Like  ours.     Celia,  Celia,  why  should  there  be 
Distrust  between  ourselves  and  them,  disunity? 
....  How  careful  we  have  been 
To  trim  this  little  circle  that  we  tread, 


THE  NEW  WORLD 


To  set  a  bar 

To  strangers  and  forbid  them !  —  Are  they  not 

as  we, 

Our  very  likeness  and  our  nearest  kin? 
How  can  we  shut  them  out  and  let  stars  in?" 
She   looked  along  the   lake.     And  when   I 

heard  her  speak, 
The  sun  fell  on  the  boy's  white  sail  and  her 

white  cheek. 
"  I  touch  them  all  through  you,"  she  said.     "  I 

cannot  know  them  now 
Deeply    and    truly    as    my   very    own,    except 

through  you, 

Except  through  one  or  two 
Interpreters. 
But  not  a  moment  stirs 

Here  between  us,  binding  and  interweaving  us, 
That  does  not  bind  these  others  to  our  care." 

The  sunlight  fell  in  glory  on  her  hair.   .   .  . 
And  then  said  Celia,  radiant,  when  I  held  her 

near: 
"  They  who  find  beauty  there,  shall  find  it  here." 

And  on  her  brow, 
When  I  heard  Celia  speak, 
Cities  were  populous 


8  THE  NEW  WORLD 

With  peace  and  oceans  echoed  glories  in  her  ear 

And  from  her  risen  thought 

Her  lips  had  brought, 

As  from  some  peak 

Down  through  the  clouds,  a  mountain-air 

To  guide  the  lonely  and  uplift  the  weak. 

"  Record  it  all,"  she  told  me,  "  more  than 

merely  this, 
More  than  the  shine  of  sunset  on  our  heads, 

more  than  a  kiss, 

More  than  our  rapt  agreement  and  delight 
Watching    the     mountain    mingle     with     the 

night.  .  .  . 

Tell  that  the  love  of  two  incurs 
The  love  of  multitudes,  makes  way 
And  welcome  for  them,  as  a  solitary  star 
Brings  on  the  great  array. 
Go  make  a  lovers'  calendar," 
She  said,  "  for  every  day." 

And  when  the  sun  had  put  away 
His  dazzle,  over  the  shadowy  firs 
The  solitary  star  came  out.  ...  So  on  some 

night 

To  eyes  of  youth  shall  come  my  light 
And  hers. 


II 


"  Where  are  you  bound,  O  solemn  voyager?  " 
She  laughed  one  day  and  asked  me  in  her  mirth : 
"  Where  are  you  from? 
Why  are  you  come?  " 
....  The  questions  beat  like  tapping  of  a 

drum; 

And  how  could  I  be  dumb, 
I  who  have  bugles  in  me  ?     Fast 
The  answer  blew  to  her, 
For  all  my  breath  was  worth.   .  .  . 
"  As  a  bird  comes  by  grace  of  spring, 
You  are  my  journey  and  my  wing  — 
And  into  your  heart,  O  Celia, 
My  heart  has  flown,  to  sing 
Solemn  and  long 
A  most  undaunted  song." 

This  was  the  song  that  she  herself  had  taught 

me  how  to  sing: 
...  As  immigrants  come  toward  America 

9 


io  THE  NEW  WORLD 

On  their  continual  ships  out  of  the  past, 

So  on  my  ship  America  have  I,  by  birth, 

Come  forth  at  last 

From  all  the  bitter  corners  of  the  earth. 

And  I  have  ears  to  hear  the  westward  wind 

blowing 

And  I  have  eyes  to  look  beyond  the  scope 
Of  sea 

And  I  have  hands  to  touch  the  hands 
Of  shipmates  who  are  going 
Wherever  I  go  and  the  grace  of  knowing 
That  what  for  them  is  hope 
Is  hope  for  me. 

I  come  from  many  times  and  many  lands, 
I  look  toward  life  and  all  that  it  shall  hold, 
Past  bound  and  past  divide. 
And  I  shall  be  consoled 
By  a  continent  as  wide 
As  the  round  invisible  sky. 
.  .  .  .  "  The  unseen  shall  become  the  seen.  .  .  . 
O  Celia,  be  my  Spanish  Queen! 
The  Genoan  am  I !  " 

And  Celia  cried: 
"  My  jewels,  they  are  yours, 
Yours  for  the  journey.     Use  them  well. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  n 

Go  find  the  new  world,  win  the  shores 

Of  which  the  old  books  tell  I 

....  Yet  will  they  listen,  poet?     Will  they 
sail  with  you? 

Will  they  not  call  you  dreamer  of  a  dream? 

Will  they  not  laugh  at  you,  because  you  seem 

Concerned  with  words  that  people  often  say 

And  deeds  they  never  do?  " 

The  bright  sails  of  my  caravel  shook  sea 
ward  in  reply: 

"  Though  I  be  told 

A  thousand  facts  to  hold 

Me  back,  though  the  old  boundary 

Rise  up  like  hatred  in  my  way, 

Though  fellow-voyagers  cry, 

4  A  lie !  '— 

Here  as  I  come  with  heaven  at  my  side 

None  of  the  weary  words  they  say 

Remain  with  me, 

I  am  borne  like  a  wave  of  the  sea 

Toward  worlds  to  be.  ... 

And,  young  and  bold, 

I  am  happier  than  they  — 

The  timid  unbelievers  who  grow  old  1  " 


12  THE  NEW  WORLD 

She  interceded:  "  How  impatient,  how  un 
kind 

You  are!     What  secret  do  you  know 

To  keep  you  young? 

Age  comes  with  keen  and  accurate  advance 

Against  youth's  lightly  handled  lance. 

Age  is  an  ancient  despot  that  has  wrung 

All  hearts."  .  .  .  My  answer  was  the  song  for 
ever  sung: 

"  This  that  I  need  to  know  I  know  — 

Onpouring  and  perpetual  immigrants, 

We  join  a  fellowship  beyond  America 

Yet  in  America.  .  .  . 

Beyond  the  touch  of  age,  my  Celia, 

In  you,  in  me,  in  everyone,  we  join  God's 
growing  mind. 

For  in  no  separate  place  or  time,  or  soul,  we  find 

Our  meaning.     In  one  mingled  soul  reside 

All  times  and  places.     On  a  tide 

Of  mist  and  azure  air 

We  journey  toward  that  soul,  through  circum 
stance, 

Until  at  last  we  fully  care  and  dare 

To  make  within  ourselves  divinity." 


THE  NEW  WORLD  13 

"  And  what  of  all  the  others,"  Celia  said, 
"  Who  ventured  brave  as  you  ?     What  of  the 

dead?" 

Again  I  saw  the  halo  in  her  hair 
And  said:  "  The  dead  sail  forward,  hid  behind 
This  wave  that  we  ourselves  must  mount  to  find 
The  eternal  way. 
Adventurers  of  long  ago 
Seeking  a  richer  gain  than  earthly  gold, 
They  have  left  for  us,  half-told, 
Their  guesses  of  the  port,  more  numerous  and 

blind 

Than  their  unnumbered  and  forgotten  faces. 
.  .  .  And  though  today,  as  then, 
Death  is  a  wind  blowing  them  forward  out  of 

sight  and  out  of  mind, 
Yet  in  familiar  and  in  unfamiliar  places 
Inquiring  by  what  means  I  may 
The  destination  of  the  wind 
Of  death,  I  have  found  signs  and  traces 
Of  the  way  they  go 

And  with  a  quicker  heart  I  have  beheld  again 
In  visions,  from  my  ship  at  sea, 
The  great  new  world  confronting  me, 


14  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Where,  yesterday, 

Today,  tomorrow,  dwell  my  countrymen." 


And  then  I  looked  away, 
Over  the  pasture  and  the  valley,  to  the  New 

Hampshire  town.  .  .  . 
And  my  heart's  acclaim  went  down, 
To  Florida,  Wisconsin,  California, 
And  brought  a  good  report  to  Celia : 
"  My  ship  America, 
This  whole  wide-timbered  land, 
Well  captained  and  well  manned, 
Ascends  the  sea 
Of  time,  carrying  me 
And  many  passengers. 
And  every  cabin  stirs 
With  the  pulsing  of  its  engine  over  the  sway  of 

time, 
Yes,  every  state  and  city,  every  village,  every 

farm, 

And  every  heart  and  everyone's  right  arm. 
.  .  .  Celia,  hold  out  your  hand, 
Or  anyone  in  any  field  or  street,  hold  out  your 

hand  — 


THE  NEW  WORLD  15 

And  I  can  see  it  pulse  the  massive  climb 

And  dip 

Of  this  America, 

My  ship!" 

"  Why  make  your  ship  so  small? 
Can  your  America  contain  them  all?  " 

How  wisely  I  replied 
In  the  province  of  my  pride : 
"  But  these  are  my  own  shipmates,  these 
Who  share  my  ship  America  with  me ! 
.  .  .  On  many  seas 

On  other  ships,  even  the  ancient  ships  of  Greece, 
Have  other  immigrants  set  sail  for  peace. 
But  these  are  my  own  shipmates  whom  I  see 
At  hand  —  these  are  my  company." 

"  What  have  you  said,"  she  cried, 
"  Thinking  you  knew? 
Whom  have  you  called  your  shipmates?     You 

were  wrong! 
Your  ship  is  strong 
With  a  more  various  crew 
Than  any  one  man's  country  could  provide, 
To  make  it  ride 
So  high  and  manifold  and  so  complete. 


1 6  THE  NEW  WORLD 

This  is  the  engine-beat 

Of  life  itself,  the  ship  of  ships. 

There  is  no  other  ship  among  the  stars  than 

this. 

The  wind  of  death  is  a  bright  kiss 
Upon  the  lips 

Of  every  immigrant,  as  upon  yours  and  mine  — 
Theirs  is  the  stinging  brine 
And  sun  and  open  sea, 
And  theirs  the  arching  sky,  eternity." 

And  Celia  had  my  homage.     I  was  wrong. 
Immigrants  all,  one  ship  we  ride, 
Man  and  his  bride 
The  journey  through. 
O  let  it  be  with  a  bridal-song !  .  .  . 
"  My  shipmates  are  as  many  as  eternity  is  long: 
The  unborn  and  the  living  and  the  dead  — 
And,  Celia,  you !  " 


Ill 

That  midnight  when  the  moon  was  tall 
I  walked  alone  by  the  white  lake  —  yet  with  a 

vanished  race 
And  with  a  race  to  come.     To  walk  with  dead 

men  is  to  pray, 
To  walk  with  men  unborn  —  to  find  the  way. 

I    have    seen    many    days.     That    night    I 

watched  them  all. 
I  have  seen  many  a  sign  and  trace 
Of  beauty  and  of  hope : 
An  elm  at  night;  an  arrowy  waterfall; 
The  illimitable  round  unbroken  scope 
Of  life ;  a  friend's  unfrightened  dying  face. 

Though  I  have  heard  the  cry  of  fear  in 

crowded  loneliness  of  space, 
Dead  laughter  from  the  lips  of  lust, 
Anger  from  fools,  falsehood  from  sycophants, 
(My  fear,  my  lips,  my  anger,  my  disgrace) 
17 


1 8  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Though  I  have  held  a  golden  cup  and  tasted 

rust, 

Seen  cities  rush  to  be  defiled 
By  the  bright-fevered  and  consuming  sin 
Of  making  only  coin  and  lives  to  count  it  in, 
Yet  once  I  watched  with  Celia, 
Watched  on  a  ferry  an  Italian  child, 
One  whom  America 
Had  changed. 

His  cheek  was  hardy  and  his  mouth  was  frail 
For  sweetness,  and  his  eyes  were  opening  wild 
As  with  wonder  at  an  unseen  figure  carrying  a 

grail. 

Perhaps  he  faced,  as  I  did  in  his  glance, 
The    spirit    of  the    living    dead    who,    having 

ranged 

Through  long  reverses,  forward  without  fail 
Carry  deliverance 
From  privilege  and  disinheritance, 
Until  their  universal  soul  shall  prove 
The  only  answer  to  the  ache  of  love. 

"  America  was  wistful  in  that  child," 
Said  Celia  afterwards  —  and  smiled 
Because  all  three  of  us  were  immigrants, 


THE  NEW  WORLD  19 

Each  voyaging  into  each. 

Over  the  city-roofs,  the  sun  awoke 
Bright  in  the  dew 

Of  a  marvellous  morning,  while  she  spoke 
Of  the  sun,  the  dew,  the  wonder,  in  a  child: 
"  He  who  devises  tyranny,"  she  said, 
"  Denies  the  resurrection  of  the  dead, 
Beneath  his  own  degree  degrades  himself, 
Invades  himself  with  ugliness  and  wars. 
But  he  who  knows  all  men  to  be  himself, 
Part  of  his  own  experiment  and  reach, 
Humbles  and  amplifies  himself 
To  build  and  share  a  tenement  of  stars." 


Once  when  we  broke  a  loaf  of  bread 
And  shared  the  honey,  Celia  said: 
"  To  share  all  beauty  as  the  interchanging  dust, 
To  be  akin  and  kind  and  to  entrust 
All  men  to  one  another  for  their  good, 
Is  to  have  heard  and  understood, 
And  carried  to  the  common  enemy 
In  you  and  me, 
The  ultimatum  of  democracy." 


20  THE  NEW  WORLD 

"  But  to  what  goal?"  I  wondered.     And  I 

heard  her  happy  speech: 
"  It  is  my  faith  that  God  is  our  own  dream 
Of  perfect  understanding  of  the  soul. 
It  is  my  passion  that,  alike  through  me 
And  every  member  of  eternity, 
The  source  of  God  is  sending  the  same  stream. 
It  is  my  peace  that  when  my  life  is  whole, 
God's  life  shall  be  completed  and  supreme." 

And  once  when  I  had  made  complaint 
About  America,  she  warned  me :  "  Be  not  faint 
Of  heart,  but  bold  to  see  the  soul's  advance. 
The  chances  are  not  far  nor  few.  .  .  . 
Face  beauty,"  Celia  said,  "  then  beauty  faces 
you." 


And  under  all  things  her  advice  was  true. 
.  .  .  Discovering  what  she  knew, 
Not  only  on  a  mountainous  place 
Or  by  the  solving  sea 
But  through  the  world  I  have  seen  endless 

beauty,  as  the  number  grows 
Of  those  who,  in  a  child  cheated  of  simple  joy 


THE  NEW  WORLD  21 

Or  in  a  wasted  rose 

Or  in  a  lover's  immemorial  lonely  eyes 

Or  in  machines  that  quicken  and  destroy 

A  multitude  or  in  a  mother's  unregarded  grace 

And  broken  heart,  through  all  the  skies 

And  all  humanity, 

Seek  out  the  single  spirit,  face  to  face, 

Find  it,  become  a  conscious  part  of  it 

And  know  that  something  pure  and  exquisite, 

Although  inscrutably  begun, 

Surely  exalts  the  many  into  one. 


"  I  shall  not  lose,  nor  you," 
I  said  to  Celia.     Over  the  world  the  morning- 
dew 
Moved  like  a  hymn  and  sang  to  us :  "  Go  now, 

fulfill 

Your  destiny  and  joy; 
Each  in  the  other,  both  in  that  Italian  boy, 
And  he  in  you,  like  flowers  in  a  hill  I  " 
.  .  .  She  was  the  nearness  of  imperfect  God 
On  whom  in  her  perfection  was  at  work. 
Lest  I  should  shirk 


22  THE  NEW  WORLD 

My  share,  I  asked  her  for  His  blessing  and  His 

nod  — 
And  His  breath  was  in  her  shining  hair  like  the 

wind  in  golden-rod. 

"  But,  Celia,  Celia,  tell  me  what  to  be," 
I  asked,  "  and  what  to  do, 
To  keep  your  faith  in  me, 
To  witness  mine  in  you !  " 

She  answered:  "  Dare  to  see 
In  every  man  and  woman  everywhere 
The  making  of  us  two. 
See  none  that  we  can  spare 
From  the  creation  of  our  soul. 
Swear  to  be  whole. 
Let  not  your  faith  abate, 

But  establish  it  in  persons  and  exalt  it  in  the 
state." 


IV 


Celia  has  challenged  me.  .  .  . 
Be  my  reply, 

Challenge  to  poets  who,  with  tinkling  tricks, 
Meet  life  and  pass  it  by. 
"  Beauty,"  they  ask,  "  in  politics?  " 
"  If  you  put  it  there,"  say  I. 

Wide  the  new  world  had  opened  its  bright 

gates. 

And  a  woman  who  had  heard  of  the  new  world 
All  her  life  long  and  had  saved  her  pence 
By  hard  frugality,  to  be  her  competence 
In  the   free   home,   came   eagerly  in  nineteen 

seven 

Into  These  States, 
With  her  little  earnings  furled 
In  a  large  handkerchief  —  but  with  a  heart 
Too  rich  to  be  contained,  for  she  had  done  her 

part: 
She  had  come 

23 


24  THE  NEW  WORLD 

With  faith  to  Heaven. 

But  there  was  a  panic  that  year, 
No  work,  no  wages  in  These  States. 
And  a  great  fear 
Seized  on  the  immigrant.     And  so  she  took  her 

pence 

All  of  them,  furled 
Safe    in   her  handkerchief,    to   a   government 

cashier  — 

A  clerk  in  the  post-office.      (And  he  relates 
Her  errand  as  a  joke,  yet  tenderly 
For  I  watched  him  telling  me.) 
.  .  .  Not  knowing  English,  being  dumb, 
She  had  brought  with  her  a  thin-faced  lad 
To  interpret.     And  he  made  it  clear, 
While  she  unfurled 
Her  handkerchief  and  poured  the  heap  of  coins 

out  of  her  hand, 

That  '  she  was  giving  all  she  had  — 
To  be  used  no  matter  how,  you  understand  '  . .  . 
Lest  harm  should  come  to  the  new  world. 

O  doubters  of  democracy, 
Undo  your  mean  contemptuous  art !  — 


THE  NEW  WORLD  25 

More  than  in  all  that  poetry  has  said, 

More  than  in  mound  or  marble,  in  the  living 

live  the  dead. 

The  past  has  done  its  reproductive  part. 
Hear  now  the  cry  of  beauty's  present  needs, 
Of  comrades  levelling  a  thousand  creeds, 
Finding  futility 

In  conflict,  selfishness,  hardness  of  heart! 
For  love  has  many  poets  who  can  see 
Ascending  in  the  sky 
Above  the  shadowy  passes 
The  everlasting  hills:  humanity. 
O  doubters  of  the  time  to  be, 
What  is  this  might,  this  mystery, 
Moving  and  singing  through  democracy, 
This  music  of  the  masses 
And  of  you  and  me  — 
But  purging  and  dynamic  poetry!  — 
What  is  this  eagerness  from  sea  to  sea 
But  young  divinity ! 


I  have  seen  doubters,  with  a  puny  joy, 
Accept  amusement  for  their  little  while 


26  THE  NEW  WORLD 

And  feed  upon  some  nourishing  employ 

But    otherwise    shake    their    wise    heads    and 
smile  — 

Protesting  that  one  man  can  no  more  move  the 
mass 

For  good  or  ill 

Than  could  the  ancients  kindle  the  sun 

By  tying  torches  to  a  wheel  and  rolling  it  down 
hill. 
But  not  the  wet  circumference  of  the  seas 

Can  quench  the  living  light  in  even  these, 

These  who  forget, 

Eating  the  fruits  of  earth, 

That  nothing  ever  has  been  done 

To  spur  the  spirit  of  mankind, 

Which  has  not  come  to  pass 

Forth  from  the  heart  and  mind 

Of  some  one  man,  through  other  men  birth 
after  birth, 

In  thoughts  that  dare 

And  in  deeds  that  share 

And  in  a  will  resolved  to  find 

A  finer  breath 

Born  in  the  deep  maternity  of  death. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  27 

...  If  these  be  ecstasies  of  youth, 

Yet    they  are    news    of    which    all    time    has 

need. 

If  they  be  lies,  tell  them  yourselves  and  heed 
How  poets'  twice-told  lies  become  the  truth  1 


There  was  a  poet  Celia  loved  who,  hearing  all 

around 

The  multitudinous  tread 
Of  common  majesty, 
(A  hearty  immigrant  was  he  !) 
Made  of  the  gathering  insurgent  sound 
Another  continent  of  poetry? 
His  name  is  writ  in  his  blood,  mine  and  yours. 
..."  And  when  he  celebrates 
These  States," 

She  said,  "  how  can  Americans  worth  their  salt 
But  listen  to  the  wavesong  on  their  shores, 
The  waves  and  Walt, 

And  hear  the  windsong  over  rock  and  wood, 
The  winds  and  Walt, 
And  let  the  mansong  enter  at  their  gates 
And  know  that  it  is  good!  " 


28  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Walt  Whitman,  by  his  perfect  friendliness 
Has  let  me  guess 
That  into  Celia,  into  me, 
He  and  unnumbered  dead  have  come 
To  be  our  intimates, 
To  make  of  us  their  home 
Commingling  earth  and  heaven.  .  .  . 
That  by  our  true  and  mutual  deeds 
We  shall  at  last  be  shriven 
Of  these  hypocrisies  and  jealous  creeds 
And  petty  separate  fates  — 
That  I  in  every  man  and  he  in  me, 
Together  making  God,  are  gradually  creating 

whole 
The  single  soul. 

Somebody  called  Walt  Whitman  — 
Dead! 

He  is  alive  instead, 
Alive  as  I  am.     When  I  lift  my  head, 
His  head  is  lifted.     When  his  brave  mouth 

speaks, 
My  lips  contain  his  word.     And  when  his  rocker 

creaks 
Ghostly  in  Camden,  there  I  sit  in  it  and  watch 

my  hand  grow  old 


THE  NEW  WORLD  29 

And  take  upon  my  constant  lips  the  kiss  of 

younger  truth.  .  .  . 
It  is  my  joy  to  tell  and  to  be  told 
That  he,  in  all  the  world  and  me, 
Cannot  be  dead, 
That  I,  in  all  the  world  and  him,  youth  after 

youth 
Shall  lift  my  head. 


V 

There  is  a  vision,  Celia,  in  your  face.  .  .  . 

Beauty  had  lived  in  India  like  a  mad 

And  withdrawn  prophetess,  in  Greece  had  set 

her  pace 

Between  a  laurelled  lad 

And  a  singing  maiden,  pitched  her  purple  tents 
In  Rome,  leaned  with  a  mother's  fears 
In  Bethlehem  to  nurse  a  son  of  God  upon  her 

breast 

And  learned  the  tender  loneliness  of  tears, 
Awhile  had  hid  in  Europe,  sad 
In  the  shadow  of  magnificence, 
Brooding,  finding  no  rest, 
And  then  of  a  sudden  she  had  run  forth  from 

her  hiding-place, 
Rejoicing,  desperate,  intense 
Against  her  enemy,  a  rod 
Of  fire  in  her  hand,  her  tresses  crowned 
With  liberty,  her  purpose  bold  and  bound 

30 


THE  NEW  WORLD  31 

That  every  son  should  be  a  son  of  God. 

And  then  she  wept  for  France.  .  .  .  But  once 
more  clad 

In  stars,  she  beckons  to  America,  the  land 

Of  hope.     Behold  her  stand 

With  her  bright  finger  scorning  armaments 

And  on  her  lips  the  unconquerable  common 
sense 

Of  love  calling  the  world  to  challenge  and  con 
found 

The  empty  idols  of  her  enemy! 

.  .  .  Comforter  of  experience, 

Enlightener  of  old  events, 

Beauty  forever  dares  to  widen  and  retrace 

Her  way,  singing  the  marches  of  democracy, 

Carrying  banners  of  the  time  to  be, 

Calling  companions  to  her  high  command. 

There  is  a  banner,  Celia,  in  your  hand! 

Though  sons,  whose  fathers  bled 
For  freedom,  struggle  now  instead 
With  heavier  weapons  and  with  weary-waking 
head 


32  THE  NEW  WORLD 

For  bread; 

Though  sons,  whose  fathers  fought  in  other 

ages 

For  fame,  bear  in  their  hearts  today  the  scar 
Of  entering  where  the  laborer  sleeps 
And  rousing  him  with  masterly  inquiry  where 

he  keeps 
His  wages: 
Though  all  the  cunning  coil  of  trade  appear  a 

baser  thing 
Than  battles  are, 
O  trace  through  time  the  orbit  of  this  troubled 

starl 

.  .  .  See,  from  afar  off,  how  the  valiant  few 
Of  old,  each  with  a  helmet  on  his  head, 
Practiced  their  inconclusive  feud 
Upon  no  battlefield  of  unfeeling  dew  — 
But  on  the  prostrate  stillness  of  the  multitude ! 
Even  their  knightliest  prowess  they  must  rear, 
Tamerlane,  Alexander,  Arthur,  every  king, 
Upon  the  common  clay  from  which  they  spring. 
For  see  how  slaves,  on  whom  war  falls,  renew 
The  strength  of  war  and  disappear 
Year  after  year 


THE  NEW  WORLD  33 

Into  the  earth  —  fulfilling  it  to  form  and  bear 
Democracy ! 

Look  nearer  now  along  the  modern  sky 
And  watch  where  every  man  fastens  the  electric 

wing 

Upon  his  foot,  that  he  may  leave  his  little  sod 
Of  ignorance ! 

And  look  where,  by  and  by, 
Taking  his  high  inheritance, 
He  knows  himself  and  other  men  as  the  winged 

self  of  God! 

The  times  are  gone  when  only  few  were  fit 
To  view  with  open  vision  the  sublime, 
When  for  the  rest  an  altar-rail  sufficed 
To  obscure  the  democratic  Christ.  .  .  . 
Perceiving  now  his  gift,  demanding  it, 
The  benison  of  common  benefit, 
Men,  women,  all, 
Interpreters  of  time, 

Have  found  that  lordly  Christ  apocryphal 
While  Christ  the  comrade  comes  again  —  no 

wraith 

Of  virtue  in  a  far-off  faith 
But  a  companion  hearty,  natural, 


34  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Who  sorrows  with  indomitable  eyes 

For  his  mistreated  plan 

To  share  with  all  men  the  upspringing  sod, 

The  unfolding  skies  — 

Not  God  who  made  Himself  the  Man, 

But  a  man  who  proved  man's  unused  worth  — 

And  made  himself  the  God. 


Once  you  had  listened,  Celia,  to  a  stream 
And  lain  a  long  time,  silent  as  a  sleeper. 
And  then  your  word  arrived  as  from  beyond 
Your  body,  bending  with  its  breath  the  frond 
Of  a   fern.     You  whispered  to   the   listening 

stream : 

"  As  evil  is  yet  wider  than  we  dream, 
So  good  is  deeper."  .  .  . 

O  how  I  try  to  bring 

Your  voice  to  say  in  mine  that  word !  —  to  sing 
Clear-hearted  as  a  mountain-spring 
Of  the  wonders  we  see  deepening! 

Time    cannot    bury    what    the    blest    have 

thought, 
For  there  is  resurrection  far  and  near. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  35 

Often  it  seems  as  though   a   single   day  had 

brought 

To  each  bright  hemisphere 
Courage  to  cast 
The  servitude 

And  blinded  glory  of  the  past 
Away  and  in  a  flash  had  taught 
Purpose  and  fortitude.   .  .   . 

But  not  so  swiftly  are  we  wrought. 
By  many  single  days  we  learn  to  live, 
By  many  flashes  read  the  vision  clear 
That  every  heart  is  equal  debtor 
To  its  own  and  every  breast 
For  the  good  before  the  better, 
The  better  toward  the  best. 

When  we  who   hugged  awhile   the   golden 

bowl 

Of  greed  behold  it  now  a  sieve 
Through  which  is  drained  invisibly 
A  nectar  we  were  saving  for  the  soul, 
Then  not  in  vain  have  many  gone 
The  empty  ways  of  stealth 
Seeking  a  firmer  base  than  honesty 
For  building  happiness  upon.  .  .  . 


36  THE  NEW  WORLD 

And  by  the  ancient  agonizing  test 
We  have  slowly  guessed 
That  a  just  portion  of  the  whole 
Is  all  there  is  of  wealth. 

When  those  who  labor  wake 
And  care  .   .  . 
And  through  the  tingling  air 
A  dead  man's  voice,  by  living  men  renewed 
And  women,  dares  democracy 
To  self-respect:     "  Open  the  lands !     Let  man 
kind  share 

The  ample  livelihood  they  bear !  " — 
Then  not  in  vain  have  the  poor  known  distress, 
Teaching  the  rich  that  happiness 
Is  something  no  man  may  —  possess. 

Little  by  little  we,  whose  fathers  fought 
Impassioned,  are  ashamed 
Of  the  familiar  thought 
That  waste  of  blood  is  honourable  feud : 
Little  by  little  from  the  wondering  land 
The  agitation  and  the  lie  of  war 
Shall  pass ;  for  in  the  heart  disclaimed 
Murder  shall  be  abandoned  by  the  hand. 

And  while  there  grows  a  fellowship  of  un 
shed  blood 


THE  NEW  WORLD  37 

To  stop  the  wound  and  heal  the  scar 

Of  time,  with  sudden  glorious  aptitude 

Woman  assumes  her  part.     Her  pity  in  a  flood 

Flings  down  the  gate. 

She  has  been  made  to  wait 

Too  long,  undreaming  and  untaught 

The  touch  and  beauty  of  democracy. 

But,  entering  now  the  strife 

In  which  her  saving  sense  is  due, 

She  watches  and  she  grows  aware, 

Holding  a  child  more  dear  than  properly, 

That  the  many  perish  to  empower  the  few, 

That  homeless  politics  have  split  apart 

The  common  country  of  the  human  heart. 

(Your  heart  is  beating,  Celia,  like  a  song!) 

....  For  man  has  need 

Not  merely  of  the  lips  that  kiss  and  hands  that 

feed 

But  of  the  hearts  that  heed 
And  of  the  minds  that  speed 
Like  rain. 

Loving  a  mother  or  a  wife, 
Let  him  release  her  tenderness,  to  make  him 

strong, 


160477 


38  THE  NEW  WORLD 

And  use  her  beauty  and  receive  her  law: 
The  very  life  of  life. 


In  temporary  pain 
The  age  is  bearing  a  new  breed 
Of  men  and  women,  patriots  of  the  world 
And  one  another.     Boundaries  in  vain, 
Birthrights  and  countries,  would  constrain 
The  old  diversity  of  seed 
To  be  diversity  of  soul. 

O  mighty  patriots,  maintain 
Your  loyalty !  —  till  flags  unfurled 
For  battle  shall  arraign 

The  traitors  who  unfurled  them,  shall  remain 
And  shine  over  an  army  with  no  slain, 
And  men  from  every  nation  shall  enroll 
And  women  —  in  the  hardihood  of  peace ! 

What  can  my  anger  do  but  cease  ? 
Whom  shall  I  fight  and  who  shall  be  my  enemy 
When  he  is  I  and  I  am  he  ? 

Let  me  have  done  with  that  old  God  outside 
Who  watched  with  preference  and  answered 
prayer, 


THE  NEW  WORLD  39 

The  Godhead  that  replied 

Now  here,  now  there, 

Where  heavy  cannon  were 

Or  coins  of  gold! 

Let  me  receive  communion  with  all  men, 

Acknowledging  our  one  and  only  soul ! 

For  not  till  then 
Can  God  be  God,  till  we  ourselves  are  whole. 


VI 

Once  in  a  smoking-car,  I  saw  a  scene 
That  made  my  blood  stand  still.   .  .  . 
While  the  sun  smouldered  in  a  great  ravine, 
And  I,  with  elbow  on  the  window-sill, 
Was  watching  the  dim  ember  of  the  west, 
Half-heard,  but  poignant  as  a  bell 
For  fire,  there  came  a  moan;  the  voice  of  one 

in  hell. 
I  turned.     Across  the  car  were  two  young 

men, 

Yet  hardly  more  than  boys, 
French  by  their  look,  and  brothers, 
And  one  was  moaning  on  the  other's  breast. 
His  face  was  hid  away.     I  could  not  tell 
What  words  he  said,   half  English  and  half 

French.     I  only  knew 
Both  men  were  suffering,  not  one  but  two. 

And  then  that  face  came  into  view, 
Gaunt  and  unshaved,  with  shadows  and  wild 

eyes, 

40 


THE  NEW  WORLD  41 

A  face  of  madness  and  of  desolation.     And  his 
cries, 

For  all  his  mate  could  do, 

Rang  out,  a  shrill  and  savage  noise, 

And  tears  ran  down  the  stubble  of  his  cheek. 
The  other  face  was  younger,  clean  and  sad 

With  the  manful  stricken  beauty  of  a  lad 

Who  had  intended  always  to  be  glad. 

....  The   touch   of   his   compassion,   like   a 
mother's, 

Pitied  the  madman,  soothed  him  and  caressed. 

And  then  I  heard  him  speak, 

In  a  low  voice:     "  Mon  frere,  mon  frere! 

Calme-toi !     Right  here's  your  place." 

And,  opening  his  coat,  he  pressed 

Upon  his  heart  the  wanderer's  face 

And  smoothed  the  tangled  hair. 
After  a  moment  peaceful  there, 

The  maniac  screamed  —  struck  out  and  fell 

Across  his  brother's  arm.     Love  could  not  quell 

His  anger.     Wrists  together  high  in  air 

He  rose  and  with  a  yell 

Brought  down  his  handcuffs  toward  his  broth 
er's  face  — 

But  his  hands  were  pinned  below  his  waist, 


42  THE  NEW  WORLD 

By  a   burly,   silent   sheriff,   and   some   hideous 

thing  was  bound 
Around  his  arms  and  feet 
And  he  was  laid  upon  the  narrow  seat. 
And  then  that  sound, 
That  moan 

Of  one  forsaken  and  alone  ! 
"  Seigneur !     Le  createur  du  ciel  et  de  la  terre ! 
Forgotten  me !     Forgotten  me !  " 
....  And  when  the  voice  grew  weak 
The  brother  leaned  again,  embraced 
The  huddled  body.     But  a  shriek 
Repulsed  him :    u  Non !    Detache-moi !    I  don't 

care 

For  you.     Non !     Tu  es  1'homme  qui  m'a  trahi ! 
Non !     Tu  n'es  pas  mon  frere !  " 

But  as  often  as  that  stricken  mind  would  fill 
With  the  great  anguish  and  the  rush  of  hate, 
The  boy,  his  young  eyes  older,  older, 
Would  curve  his  shoulder 
To  the  other's  pain  and  hold  that  haunted  face 

close  to  his  face 
And  say:  "  O  wait  ! 
You  will  know  me  better  by  and  by. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  43 

Mon  pauvre  petit,  be  still ! 

Right  here's  your  place." 

....  The  gleam !  and  then  the  blinded  stare, 

The  cry : 

"  Non,  tu  n'es  pas  mon  frere !  " 


I  saw  myself,  myself,  as  blind 
As  he.     And  something  smothers 
My  reason.     And  I  do  not  know  my  broth 
ers.   .  .   . 

But  every  day  declare : 
"  Non,  tu  n'es  pas  mon  frere!  " 


But  in  the  outcome,  I  can  see.  .  .  . 
Closer  than  any  brother 
Shall  they  be  to  one  another 
And  to  me, 

Closer  than  mother,  father,  daughter,  son, 
O  closer  than  a  lover  shall  they  be, 
When  madness  like  a  storm  shall  roll 
Away,  leaving  illumination.     Within  everyone 
The  nearness  has  begun 
Toward  some  loved  life  and  toward  the  soul 


44  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Perceived  therein:   the   elemental   ache  to  be 

made  whole 
With  beauty  and  with  love. —  O  I  have  ached 

and  longed  in  the  embrace 
Of  one  I  love  to  be  undone 
Of  differences,  to  yield  and  run 
Within  the  very  blood  and  being  of  my  dear, 
One  body  and  one  face, 
One  spirit  in  all  space, 
Mingled  and  indissoluble.     And  I  have  felt  a 

mortal  tear 

Smart  on  my  lids,  when  I  had  been  so  near 
To  Celia  that  I  knew  not  which  was  I, 
Yet  the  day  returned  between  us  and  the  sky 
Held  distances  that  were  not  clear 
To  us  and  we  were  two  again  that  had  been 

almost  one. 


A  mother  yields  herself  to  enter 
Her  child,  who  nestles  close  and  sleeps 
With  all  his  wisdom  pressed 
For  comfort  to  her  breast. 
I  can  remember  my  relinquishment 
Of  consciousness  and  care, 


THE  NEW  WORLD  45 

Almost  of  life,  upon  my  mother's  heart  —  the 

great  content 
Of  being  there. 

And  then  I  love^a  starry  boy  of  three, 
Who  looked  about  him,  smiled  and  took  to  me, 
Held  out  his  arms  and  chose  me  among  men 
For  his  companion,  to  confide 
His  smiles  in  and  to  be 
At  ease  with.      Closely  by  my  side 
He  sat  and  touched  the  world,  to  see 
If  it  were  solid  and  worth  touching.     When  he 

died, 

I  too  was  dead  .  .  .  and  yet  I  hear  him  say, 
Laughing  within  my  heart  today: 
"  Lo,  being  you, 

And  having  lived  your  years,  this  will  I  do, 
And  this,  and  this !  " 

I  have  my  boy  again. 
I  greet  him  nearer  than  a  kiss. 

And  so,  from  birth  to  death,  out  of  confusion 
The  secret  creeps 
Across  the  deeps 
From  its  eternal  centre 


46  THE  NEW  WORLD 

In  the  soul. 

Communion  is  the  cause  and  the  conclusion 

And  the  unfailing  sacrament 

Not  only  of  the  mystical  frequenter 

Of  temples,  where  the  body  of  the  dead 

Creates  divine 

The  living  body  through  the  bread 

And  wine, 

But  God  discovers  and  discovers 

His  beauty  in  all  lovers. 

And,  to  make  His  beauty  whole, 

Body  and  body,  soul  and  soul,  combine 

His  one  identity  with  yours  and  mine. 

I  know  a  fellow  in  a  steel-mill  who,  intent 
Upon  his  labours  and  his  happiness,  had  meant 
In  his  own  wisdom  to  be  blest, 
Had  made  his  own  unaided  way 
To  schooling,  opportunity, 
Success.     And    then    he    loved    and    married. 

And  his  bride, 
After  a  brief  year,  died. 
I  went  to  him  to  see 
If  I  might  comfort  him.     The  comfort  came  to 

me. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  47 

"  David,"  I  said,  "  under  the  temporary  ache 
There  is  unwonted  nearness  with  the  dead." 
I  felt  his  two  hands  take 
The  sentence  from  me  with  a  grip 
Forged  in  the  mills.     He  told  me  that  his  tears 

were  shed 

Before  her  breath  went.     After  that,  instead 
Of  grief,  she  came  herself.     He  felt  her  slip 
Into  his  being  like  a  miracle,  her  lip 
Whispering  on  his,  to  slake 
His  need  of  her. — "  And  in  the  night  I  wake 
With  wonder  and  I  find  my  bride 
And  her  embrace  there  in  our  bed, 
Within  my  very  being,  not  outside ! 
....  We     have     each     other    more,     much 

more," 

He  said,  "  now  than  before. 
This  very  moment  while  I  shake 
Your  hand,  my  friend, 
Not  only  I, 
But  she  is  touching  you  —  and  laughs  with  me 

because  I  cried 
For  her.  .  .  .  People  would  think  me  crazy  if 

I  told. 


48  THE  NEW  WORLD 

But  something  in  what  you  said  made  me  bold 
To  let  you  meet  my  bride !  " 

It  was  not  madness.     David's  eye 
Was  clear  and  open-seeing. 
His  life 
Had   faced   in   death   and   understood   in   his 

young  wife, 
As  I  when  Celia  died, 
The  secret  of  God's  being. 


VII 

Among  good  citizens,  I  praise 
Again  a  woman  whom  I  knew  and  know, 
A  citizen  whom  I  have  seen 
Most  heartily,  most  patiently 
Making  God's  mind, 
A  citizen  who,  dead, 

Yet  shines  across  her  white-remembered  ways 
As  the  nearness  of  a  light  across  the  snow.  .  .  . 
My  Celia,  mystical,  serene, 
Laughing  and  kind. 

And  still  I  hear  among  New  Hampshire  trees 
Her  happy  speech : 

"  Democracy  is  beauty's  inmost  reach." 
And  still  her  voice  announces  plain 
The  mystic  gain 
Of  friends  from  adversaries  and  of  peace  from 

pain: 
Beauty's  control 

40 


50  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Of  every  soul 

Surrendering  in  victory. 

....  Well  I  recall  how  she  explained  to  me 

With  sunlight  on  her  head 

When  last  we  looked,  as  many  times  before, 

Over  those  hundred  foothills  rolling  like  the 

sea. 

"  Where  mountains  are,  door  after  door 
Unlocks  within  me,  opens  wide 
And  leaves  no  difference  in  my  heart,"  she  said, 
"  From  anything  outside." 

Not  only  Celia,  speaking,  taught  me  these 
The  tenets  of  her  beauty;  but  her  life  was  such 
That  I  believed  as  by  a  palpable  touch 
That  heals  and  tends. 

Not  better  nor  more  learned  nor  more  wise 
In  many  ways  than  others  of  my  friends, 
Celia  was  happier. 

Their  excellencies  and  their  destinies 
Became,  contributing,  a  part  of  her, 
Anointed  her  awhile  among  all  men 
An  eminent  citizen, 
A  generous  arbiter. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  51 

Not  less  bereaved  than  others  of  my  friends, 
Celia  was  lovelier. 

And  now,  though  something  of  her  dies, 
Her  heart  of  love  assembles  and  transcends 
Laws,  letters,  personalities, 
Beginnings,  passages  and  ends. 

Often  I  start  and  look  beside  me  for  the  stir 
Of  her  sweet  presence  come  again. 
I  have  cried  out  to  her, 
So  vivid  has  begun 
Some  dear-remembered  sentence  in  her  voice. 

If  a  deluded  wakeful  thrush, 
Seeing  a  light  in  a  window,  sings  to  the  sun, 
Yet  he  shall  soon  rejoice; 
When  the  great  dawn  of  day 
Opens  a  thousand  windows  into  one. 

On  a  path  where  thrushes  wake  —  called 

Celia's  Way  — 
Time  after  time 
She  led  me  high  among  the  rills. 

And  always  when  I  pass  again  our  chosen 
pine 


52  THE  NEW  WORLD 

And  feel  upon  my  brow  the  fine 

Soft  pressure  of  an  unseen  web  and  brush 

It  from  my  face  expectantly  and  climb 

Wide-eyed  into  the  mountains'  windy  hush, 

Among  the  green  and  healing  hills 

I  have  found  Celia. 

For  the  morning  fills 

With  her  and  afternoon  and  twilight.     She  is 

always  there 
As  sweet  within  me  as  the  intimate  air. 

We  are  together  still  in  the  deep  solitude 
Which  is  the  essence  of  all  companies, 
Not  in  its  loneliness  but  in  its  brood 
Of  presences,  the  dawn  chanting  with  birds,  the 

trees 

Translating  unremembered  memories 
Of  the  returning  dead. 

And  Celia,  who  has  learned  to  die, 
Is  well  aware  —  and  so  through  her  am  I  — 
That,  one  by  one  interpreted, 
All  hopes  and  pains  and  powers 
Are  hers  and  mine  to  try 
On  every  star,  through  every  age. 
,  ,  ,  ,  And,  still  together,  on  this  page 


THE  NEW  WORLD  53 

We  quote  the  sun-dial  of  the  sage : 

""  I  number  none  but  happy  hours" 

For  we  remember  still 

The  morning-hymn  we  heard:  "  Ye  shall  fulfill 

Your  destiny  and  joy, 

Each  in  the  other,  both  in  that  Italian  boy 

And  he  in  you,  like  flowers  in  a  hill." 

She  said  to  me  one  day,  where  a  hill  renewed 

its  flowers, 

"  How  easy  it  would  be  to  live  and  die 
If  we  would  only  see  the  ultimate 
Oneness  of  life,  quicken 

Our  hearts  with  it  and  know  that  they  who  hate 
And   strike   become   by   their   own   blow   the 

stricken !".... 

"  A  stranger  might  be  God,"  the  Hindus  cry. 
But  Celia  says,  importunate: 
"  Everyone  must  be  God  and  you  and  I." 


VIII 

Almost  the  body  leads  the  laggard  soul;  bid 
ding  it  see 

The  beauty  of  surrender,  the  tranquillity 

Of  fusion  with  the  earth.     The  body  turns  to 
dust 

Not  only  by  a  sudden  whelming  thrust, 

Or  at  the  end  of  a  corrupting  calm, 

But  oftentimes  anticipates  and,  entering  flowers 
and  trees 

Upon  a  hillside  or  along  the  brink 

Of  streams,  encounters  instances 

Of  its  eventual  enterprise : 

Inhabits  the  enclosing  clay, 

In  rhapsody  is  caught  away 

On  a  great  tide 

Of  beauty,  to  abide 

Translated  through  the  night  and  day 

Of  time  and,  by  the  anointing  balm 

Of  earth,  to  outgrow  decay. 

54 


THE  NEW  WORLD  55 

Hark  in  the  wind  —  the  word  of  silent  lips ! 
Look  where  some  subtle  throat,  that  once  had 

wakened  lust, 

Lies  clear  and  lovely  now,  a  silver  link 
Of  change  and  peace ! 
Hollows  and  willows  and  a  river-bed, 
Anemones  and  clouds, 
Raindrops  and  tender  distances 
Above,  beneath, 
Inherit  and  bequeath 
Our  far-begotten  beauty.     We  are  wed 
With  many  kindred  who  were  seeming  dead. 
Only  the  delicate  woven  shrouds 
Are  vanished,  beauty  thrown  aside 
To  honor  and  uncover 
A  deeper  beauty  —  as  the  veil  that  slips 
Breathless  away  between  a  lover 
And  his  bride. 


So,  by  the  body,  may  the  soul  surmise 
The  beauty  of  surrender,  the  tranquillity 
Of  fusion:  when,  set  free 
.From  semblance  of  mortality, 
Yielding  its  dust  the  richer  to  endue 


56  THE  NEW  WORLD 

A  common  avenue 

Of  earth  for  other  souls  to  journey  through, 

It  shall  put  on  in  purer  guise 

The  mutual  beauty  of  its  destiny. 

And  who  shall  fear  for  his  identity 
And  who  shall  cling  to  the  poor  privacy 
Of  incompleteness,  when  the  end  explains 
That  what  pride  forfeits,  beauty  gains ! 

Therefore,  O  spirit,  as  a  runner  strips 
Upon  a  windy  afternoon, 
Be  unencumbered  of  what  troubles  you  — 
Arise  with  grace 
And  greatly  go !  —  the  wind  upon  your  face ! 

Grieve  not  for  the  invisible  transported  brow 
On  which  like  leaves  the  dark  hair  grew, 
Nor  for  the  lips  of  laughter  that  are  now 
Laughing  inaudibly  in  sun  and  dew, 
Nor  for  the  limbs  that,  fallen  low 
And  seeming  faint  and  slow, 
Shall  alter  and  renew 
Their  shape  and  hue 
Like  birches  white  before  the  moon 
Or  a  young  apple-tree 
In  spring  or  the  round  sea 


THE  NEW  WORLD  57 

And  shall  pursue 

More  ways  of  swiftness  than  the  swallow  dips 
Among  .  .  .  and  find  more  winds  than  ever  blew 
The  straining  sails  of  unimpeded  ships ! 

A  sudden  music,   Celia,  through  a  poplar- 
bough, 

Where  leaves  are  small  and  new, 
Comes  laughing  and  goes  hastening  like  you. 

Beauty  is  more  than  hands  or  face  or  eyes 
Or  the  long  curve  that  lies 
Upon  a  bed  waiting,  more  than  the  rise 
Of  sun  among  the  birds,  more  than  the  oar  that 

plies 
Under  the  moon  for  lovers,  more  than  a  tune 

that  buys 

Pennies  from  time.     Vision  and  touch  comprise 
Yesterday's  promise,  today's  token 
Of  a  fulfillment  that  shall  have  no  need  to  be 

perceived  or  spoken, 
Wherein  all  love  is  the  award 
Poured  upon  beauty  and  no  heart  is  broken 
And  no  grief  is  stored. 

For  never  beauty  dies 


58  THE  NEW  WORLD 

That  lived.     Nightly  the  skies 
Assemble  stars,  the  light  of  hopeful  eyes, 
And  daily  brood  on  the  communal  breath  — 
Which  we  call  death. 

Nothing  is  lost.     Nothing  I  have  of  loveli 
ness 

Exceeds  a  minute  part 

Of  my  own  loveliness  when  it  shall  be  fulfilled 
With  Celia's  and  all  loveliness  that  lies 
In  every  heart. 

All  that  I  have  is  but  the  start 
And  the  beginning,  the  bewildering  guess 
Of  what  shall  be  distilled 
Out  of  my  soul  by  you  and  you, 
Each  soul  of  all  souls,  till  one  soul  remains 
Which  every  beauty  shall  imbue 
Clean  of  the  differences  and  pains.  .  .  . 

I  shall  be  Celia's  everlastingness. 


IX 


A  little  hill  among  New  Hampshire  hills 
Touches  more  stars  than  any  height  I  know. 
For  there  the  whole  earth  —  like  a  single  being 

—  fills 

And  expands  with  heaven. 
It  is  the  hill  where  Celia  used  to  go 
To  watch  Monadnock  and  the  miles  that  met 
In  slow-ascending  slopes  of  peace. 

She  said:     "  When  I  am  here,  I  find  release 
From  every  petty  debt  I  owe, 
The  goods  I  bring  with  me  increase, 
The  ills  are  riven 
And  blown  away.     And  there  remains  a  single 

debt 

Toward  all  the  world  for  me, 
A  single  duty  and  one  destiny." 

"  There  shall  be  many  births  of  God 
In  this  humanity," 

She  said,  "  and  many  crucifixions  on  the  hills, 
Before  we  learn  that  where  Christ  trod 

59 


60  THE  NEW  WORLD 

We  all  shall  tread;  and  as  he  died  to  give 
Himself  to  us,  we  too  shall  die  —  and  live." 
"  Though  slowly  knowledge  comes,  yet  in  the 

birth 

Is  joy,"  said  Celia,  "  joy 
As  well  as  pain: 

The  clear  and  clouded  beauty  of  the  earth. 
....  This  I  forget  in  cities.     For  cities  are  a 

great 

Impassable  gate 

Of  tumult.     But  by  mountains  and  by  seas  I  gain 
Path  after  path  of  peace." 

One  evening  Celia  led  me,  late, 
Among  the  many  whispers  before  rain, 
To  touch  and  climb  her  hill  again. 
I  felt  it  rise  invisible  as  fate, 
Not  for  the  eye  but  for  the  soul  to  see. 
And  when  at  last,  among  the  oaks,  we  came 
Upon  the  top,  a  perfect  voice 
Thrilled  in  the  air  like  flame  — 
Was  it  uprisen  death  we  heard? 
Was  it  immortal  youth, 
Out  of  the  body,  witnessing  the  truth, 
Attesting  glory  in  an  angel's  voice? 


THE  NEW  WORLD  61 

Blindly  we  listened  to  the  singer  and  the  single 

strain 

Containing  joy. 
And  then  the  voice  was  still  and  all  the  world 

and  we  — 

Till  "  Run,"  she  said,  "  and  bring  him  back  to 
me!" 

I  ran,  I  called  .  .  .  but  in  the  nearing  rain, 
No  mortal  answered,  nothing  stirred. 
Was  it  uprisen  death  we  heard? 

....  Perhaps  the  hills  and  night 
Had  made  a  prophet  of  some  wandering  boy, 
Prompting  him  in  that  instant  to  rejoice 
As  never  in  his  life  before. 
He  must  have  had  his  own  delight 
As  well  in  silence  as  in  song; 
For,  though  we  waited  long, 
He  sang  no  more. 

Afterward    Celia    said :     "  That    voice    we 

heard 

Singing  among  the  oak-leaves,  and  then  still, 
We  cannot  answer  how  it  sings  or  how  it  comes 

and  goes.  .  .  . 
But  only  that  its  beauty  ever  grows 


62  THE  NEW  WORLD 

Within  us  both,  in  ways  no  voice  has  told. 
....  So  let  me  be  to  you.     When  night  has 

drawn  its  fold 
Of  darkness  and  no  word 
May  reach  your  heart  from  mine, 
Take  then  my  love,  my  beauty !     Hear  me  still 
When  you  are  old 

And  I  am  ageless  as  a  changing  hill ! 
O  hear  me  like  that  voice  at  night, 
Clearer  than  sound,  nearer  than  sight, 
And  let  me  be  —  as  beauty  is  —  divine !  " 

There  is  a  hill  of  hills 
That  holds  my  heart  on  high  and  stills 
All  other  sound 
Than  joy. 

Robins  and  thrushes,  whip-poor-wills 
And  morning-sparrows  sing  it  round 
With  echoes.     Waterfalls  abound 
And  many  streams  convoy 
The  breath  of  music.     I  have  found 
A  hill-path  rising  sudden  on  a  city-street, 
Out  of  a  quarrel,  out  of  black  despair, 
And  climbed  it  with  my  winged  feet. 
It  hurries  me  above 


THE  NEW  WORLD  63 

All  this  illusion,  all  these  ills, 

It  rises  quickly  to  the  shining  air. 

....  Celia,  I  hear  you  on  the  hill  of  hills, 

Announcing  love. 

And  O  my  citizen,  perhaps  the  few 
Whom  I  shall  tell  of  you 
Will  see  with  me  your  beauty  who  are  dead, 
Will  hear  with  me  your  voice  and  what  it  said! 

Let  but  a  line  of  mine, 
A  single  one, 
Be  made  to  shine 

With  your  whole-heartedness  as  with  the  sun, 
And  I  shall  so  consign 

Your  touch  to  younger  and  yet  younger  hands, 
That  they   shall   carry  beauty  through   more 

lands 
Than  ever  Helen  laid  her  touch  upon. 

In  your  new  world  I  see 
The  immigrants  arriving  from  the  ships.  .  .  . 

O  Celia,  my  democracy, 
My  destiny, 
Beauty  has  had  its  answer  on  your  lips  ! 


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